


My Favorite Scar

by BadSideOf45



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Be My Peterick Valentine Challenge 2021 (Fall Out Boy), Emotional Hurt, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Forgiveness, Internal Conflict, M/M, Smut, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29371950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadSideOf45/pseuds/BadSideOf45
Summary: A disastrous encounter at a Valentine's Day party leaves a teenage Patrick Stump aloof and cynical.Almost eight years later, a seemingly innocuous phone call from his best friend starts Patrick on a life altering path of self-examination, personal growth, forgiveness, and completion.He is not alone on this journey; they say adversity makes strange bedfellows.Happily ever afters do happen - sometimes you just have to wait thirteen years for them to ensue.
Relationships: Mikey Way/Pete Wentz, Patrick Stump/Andy "The Butcher" Mrotek, Patrick Stump/Other(s), Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz, Pete Wentz/Other(s), Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	My Favorite Scar

**Author's Note:**

> I always find it interesting when the story I end up posting in no way resembles the story I began writing. 
> 
> I just don't have it in me to end the story with an Evil Pete.
> 
> Please enjoy, and Happy Valentine's Day.

Patrick Stump sat hunched over the keys of his white baby grand piano, eyes shut tightly in concentration while performing the same series of chords over and over, playing with subtle changes in pitch and tempo.

He had been laboring over this chord progression for what seemed like an eternity, trying to make the sound emanating from the instrument match perfectly to the music in his head.

Patrick’s soft, baby-fine blonde bangs brushed his sharp, defined cheekbones leading down to full soft lips, currently humming a tune not yet perfected.

A well-worn white Bowie t-shirt and grey Vuori joggers clung to his sweat-dampened skin, a testament to the fact that the 25 year old had made a beeline for his piano straight from working out in his home gym.

Patrick let out a sigh of discontent before playing the next combination.

Suddenly, his eyes flew open and a wide grin gleefully spread across his face.

It wasn’t there yet, but it was damn close.

‘Just a change here,’ Patrick said to himself before -

His thought was lost to the opening lyrics of Rush’s Tom Sawyer blaring annoyingly from his phone.

***A Modern Day Warrior Mean Mean Stride Today’s Tom Sawyer***

“Fuck Me, Cory, this had better be really important!” Patrick growled after hitting the answer button.

“Not right now, Marty, but I may take you up on it some other time,” Bob Bryar replied, laughing at how riled up his best friend was.

They had met when Patrick was a junior at Glenbrook High School; Bob was five years older and doing community service (it really wasn’t HIS weed) by helping the drum line improve their percussion skills. Patrick had overheard Bob speaking to one of the teachers about his appreciation of Jazz music, and, after a heated debate over the best Jazz song ever, they had quickly become the best of friends.

Patrick rubbed his eyes, trying to remember the exact notes he had been playing before being interrupted.

“Did you need something, Cory, or were you just calling to remind me how much of an asshole you can be?”

Bob chuckled.

“Sorry if I messed you up, buddy. I just haven’t heard from you for a while and wanted to make sure you were still among the living.”

Patrick rolled his eyes. Ever since he had moved out to Los Angeles to pursue (quite successfully thank you very much) his dream of composing original music, Bob had taken to acting as his self-appointed Big Brother, checking up on him and making sure he was taking care of himself.

“I’m fine, Bob. I’ve been eating healthy and exercising every day. Can’t truthfully say I don’t miss that orgasm-inducing deep-dish pizza, however.”

“Come back to visit me soon and we’ll split one.”

Bob hesitated before continuing.

“I was at Lou Malnati’s the other night picking up a pie for me and Katie, and I ran into Joe Trohman. He asked how you were doing.”

Patrick sat straight up on the piano bench, both hands clutching the phone, eyes screwed shut against the undesired direction of the conversation. 

“Haven’t heard that name in a while…” Patrick replied, the words tense and strained.

“I just told him you were doing great.” Bob said softly. Another hesitation.

“Joe told me Pe -”

“Don’t.” Patrick said sharply.

Bob tried again. “Joe said He just went through his second nasty divorce, and thought it would help a lot if He spoke with you. Before I could answer my pie was done, so I said goodbye and I left.”

Patrick shook away the tightness in his shoulders and opened his eyes.

“I’m glad you got to catch up with Joe.” 

Patrick tried hard to sound unaffected. He doubted his best friend believed him.

“I was just working on something major when you called. Can I text you later?”

“Oh yeah, sure. Listen Patrick, it’s been almost eight years…”

“Gotta go Cory. Talk to you soon,” Patrick said airly before ending the call.

As he tried to find the perfect chord progression once again, his mind wandered back to high school, allowing his brain to slowly recall memories he had tried to keep safely hidden from his heart for eight years.

Patrick sighed, stood up, and stretched. He wrapped his arms around himself tightly before walking through the music room and down the hall, straight to the comfort he knew awaited him in the living room.

He fell onto the coffee colored couch, sitting on the edge and rubbing his eyes before picking up a crystal cut decanter filled with amber liquid from the coffee table. Patrick poured himself three fingers (he deserved it, okay? It’s not like he was trying to get drunk, just, just - dull the pain) of whiskey before slumping back into the soft tan and magenta pillows.

Patrick took a sip before tilting the tumbler back and forth in his hand, the light from the bright California sun shining through the glass making the liquid inside deepen and shine, reminding Patrick of a certain pair of whiskey colored eyes he had tried so hard for years to forget.

He took another sip before placing the tumbler back on the table, nestling himself into the couch, allowing his gaze to wander over to the picture window across from him, affording him an expansive view of the San Fernando valley beyond.

Patrick’s eyes were drawn back to the the crystal cut decanter and the liquid inside - his mind slowly recalling memories of twinkling amber eyes; short, shiny black hair; a smile that commanded attention; and a olive-skinned body taut, muscled, and tattooed with images that gave away few secrets of the true person locked inside.

Patrick blamed, rightly or wrongly, all of his own personal demons on Him.

It had all begun, Patrick recalled, the Friday before Valentine’s Day of his senior year in high school.

When you’re seventeen and a virgin with no prospects in sight, hearts and kisses and canoodling couples leaning against lockers are not exactly what you want to see leading up to a holiday definitely not meant for v-card holders - Valentine’s Day.

Patrick approached his locker, glad for the day to finally be over. If he had to witness one more rose being “anonymously” sent to someone in one of his classes and be forced to listen to the annoying squeals and giggles of the recipient and her gaggle of friends, he would literally wretch.

“Get a room,” he muttered under his breath as he passed a guy and a girl not well hidden under the stairs, his hand up her shirt and hers down the front of his jeans.

“Shit,” Patrick shook his head as approached his locker, violently tearing down the “Be Mine, Valentine” pink construction paper heart some stupid Glee Club member had randomly taped to the door, crumpling it into a ball and throwing it on the floor before opening his locker and changing out notebooks and textbooks from his backpack.

Patrick quickly made his way through the maze of hallways on the first floor of Glenbrook High, eager to make his way out to the parking lot where his best friend Bob was waiting to give him a ride home.

He pushed the door open, the cold February wind prompting Patrick to tug his trucker hat down and pull his hoodie closer around his body.

Long chains jingled on the side of his baggy pants draped over beat up black chucks, dragging the ground as he walked towards the familiar baby blue Dodge Dart.

It was a very girly-looking car, but no one dared to give Bob Bryar a ration of shit about it. Bob was five foot ten and solidly built, the no-nonsense look constantly on his face daring anyone to fuck with him.

A smile broke out on Bob’s face when he saw his best friend approaching.

“Marty! Glad to see you survived another day in Hell!”

Patrick stopped a few feet away from where the older boy was leaning against his car, arms crossed.

“I swear, Cory, I’d rather die of dysentery than witness one more make-out session. Valentine’s Day sucks ass!” he grumbled.

“Overdramatize much?” Bob laughed as he swiped Patrick’s trucker hat off his head and messed up his friend’s baby-fine reddish blonde hair.

“You wouldn’t feel that way if some hot girl or guy was groping you and begging for your-”

“Shut the fuck up!” Patrick snatched his hat back and looked around, blushing while pulling it back on his head. 

Bob motioned for Patrick to climb in the passenger side while he sat behind the wheel. After the doors were closed and the seat belts were locked in place, Bob turned to Patrick before starting the car.

“Marty, you know I don’t care if you like girls or guys, right? You know I’ve got your back one hundred percent either way...”

********

Patrick remembered all too well the party Bob had taken him to during Christmas break. He had gotten more than a little tipsy and met Blake, a college freshman with a lip ring who threw compliments at Patrick left and right.

Before he knew what was happening, Patrick found Blake’s tongue in his mouth, his hands on Patrick’s ass grinding his very interested cock into Patrick’s thigh.

Confused but intrigued, Patrick allowed Blake to lead him upstairs to a bedroom, where Patrick sat on the older man’s lap and rode Blake’s thigh until he was rock hard, prompting Blake to shove his hand down the front of Patrick’s jeans, Patrick’s tongue in perfect sync with Blake’s strokes until - 

The entire room flooded with light. Blake looked up and scoffed “do you mind?” 

“Ready to go, Marty?” 

Patrick blushed when he saw the bemused look on his best friend’s face. 

He quickly scrambled off Blake’s lap, straightened his clothes, and marched past Bob, not stopping until he had buckled himself into the Dart’s passenger seat.

Bob climbed in, buckled up, and turned to face Patrick.

Patrick, face beet-red and arms crossed tightly across his chest, turned to face his best friend.

“Well?”

Bob shook his head and chuckled before starting the car.

“Next time make sure you lock the fucking door!”

********

“It was ONE time, Bob, and besides, no one even gives me a second glance, so it’s not like it really matters…”

Patrick shut down the conversation by turning his body to the side and staring out the passenger side window.

Bob started the car, backed out of his parking space, and began to drive Patrick home.

After a few minutes, Bob broke the heavy silence that had settled between them.

“Hey, I forgot to tell you I ran the sound board for Arma the other night! As part of my payment they invited me to a party they’re throwing tomorrow in Wilmette, and you’re coming along as my date.”

Patrick turned back to his best friend. “Arma Angelus? I didn’t know you knew those guys.”

Bob rolled his eyes as he kept his focus on the road ahead. “I was just talking to you last week about how Joe Trohman spotted me at Borders and asked me to tech for them.”

Patrick scratched his long strawberry-blonde sideburns and gave his best friend a sheepish look. 

“Sorry, I forgot. Sure, a party sounds great, but you can’t ditch me and you DEFINITELY can’t expect me to put out unless you buy me dinner first,” Patrick deadpanned before snickering.

Bob punched the younger boy in the shoulder as he pulled into the driveway of the Stumph house.

“I’ll text you the deets later, Marty.”

“Okay. See ya, Cory!”

Patrick climbed out and closed the car door, waving to his best friend before heading into the house.

Patrick laid on his bed that night, full from a quick supper of pizza and soda. It was nearing tax season, and his mother, a popular accountant, was up to her neck in tax forms, receipts, adding machine tape, and emails from high-strung clients.

His phone buzzed, and without moving he picked it up from the nightstand and unlocked it, reading the message.

***Bobbert - Marty, party starts at 8:00, so I’ll be by yours at 9:00 to pick you up***

***Bowieman - Sounds like a plan - what are you gonna wear?***

***Bobbert - Dunno, jeans and a tshirt I guess. Probably a hoodie - party could spill outside.***

***Bowieman - Text when you get here.***

***Bobbert - Will do, man. Bob out***

Patrick shook his head and smiled as he laid his phone back on the nightstand.

After a few minutes, he sat up and dug his laptop out of his backpack, fully intending to open Garageband and work on a song he had started writing in Music Theory class.

However, after a few minutes of puttering around on the site, he found himself restless and uninspired.

He decided to switch to a new tab, opening up Google Image Search.

Patrick bit his full pink bottom lip, fingers hesitating over the keys before entering a phrase which had been increasingly occupying his thoughts.

He hit the Enter key, hundreds of pictures of gorgeous, buff, masculine men in various enticing poses filling the screen. 

Patrick’s fingers hesitated over the screen before he allowed himself to touch the ones that sparked his interest.

His eyes were suddenly drawn to one vaguely familiar picture, a young shirtless man with a wide, welcoming smile, smooth olive skin, tattoos gracing his arms and torso, and pants so tight Patrick couldn’t help but stare at the outline of the young man’s sizeable cock trying to free itself from the top of his skinny jeans.

Patrick’s hand moved the mouse over the picture, hovering over it a second before clicking the left button.

The young man’s picture now filled the entire screen of the laptop. 

Patrick frowned slightly, leaning closer to the screen. ‘I definitely know him from somewhere…’

However, the man’s hand lying innocently on his inner thigh beside his crotch distracted the teenager, beckoning Patrick to gaze openly at what he was so generously offering.

Patrick quickly looked towards his door before laying a hesitant hand on his own crotch. 

He began to stroke the denim over his dick gently while examining the picture, his touch becoming more heavy handed as he noticed the “tramp stamp” located above the man’s happy trail.

He wondered what the stranger’s skin would taste like as he imagined using the tip of his tongue to trace the necklace of thorns tattooed on the man’s collarbone before slowly working his way down to outline the strange batheart tattoo, making sure to leave a deep purple bruise in the center of it.

Patrick hissed as he rubbed his aching cock faster, feeling the need for more friction in order to - 

“Patrick? Are you using the internet? I’m losing some of my speed down here!”

Blushing furiously, Patrick quickly closed the window and shut down his laptop.

“Sorry, Mom! I’m off now!” he said, placing the laptop in his backpack before throwing a pillow on his lap in case his mother opened his door.

“Thank you Dear!” he heard his mother say before she returned to her home office.

Patrick jumped off the bed and locked the door, turning off the lights before removing his glasses, quickly shedding his hoodie and jeans before climbing under the relative safety of the covers on his bed.

He placed his hands on his chest, still semi-hard from the images he had seen on his laptop screen.

Patrick closed his eyes and allowed his right hand to slowly wander down between his legs, palming himself while visions of hot whiskey eyes and toned olive skin danced in his head.

But that batheart - he finally stuck his hand inside his boxer briefs and began to stroke his cock in earnest. What would it be like to stare into those eyes as the older man fucked him, kissing Patrick until he was breathless between whispered words of encouragement, of devotion of -

Patrick let out a low moan as he spilled all over his hand, images of the dark Adonis slowly fading from his mind.

He grabbed some tissues from the nightstand and cleaned off his hand before huffing loudly and turning onto his stomach.

It wasn’t the first time Patrick had jacked off to pictures of dudes. But, he had to admit, it had been a long time since he had used images of curvy women to blow off some steam. 

Patrick felt surprisingly at peace with this realization. 

A contented smile played on his lips as he drifted off to sleep.

Patrick awoke early the next afternoon to an annoying buzz on his nightstand.

He huffed loudly before picking up the phone and reading the message.

***BeeBo - Patrick! Drumline practice Monday afternoon! Be there or be square!***

Patrick rolled his eyes. Brendon had been a transfer student, latching on to the older teen after overhearing Patrick humming Prince tunes in the band room one day when he was a freshman and Patrick was a junior. 

Now, however, Brendon was a social butterfly, often followed around by his handsome waif of a boyfriend Ryan Ross.

***Bowieman - Sure Bren. I’ll be there. Have fun with Ryro tonite!***

***BeeBo - Always ;) <3***

Patrick checked the time before placing his phone back on the nightstand.

Two p.m. - seven hours to kill until Bob was coming to pick him up for Arma’s party in Wilmette.

He looked at the date - February 14. Valentine’s Day.

Patrick groaned before flipping over in bed and throwing the covers over his head.

Hell and damnation.

This was going to be one big grope fest, and Patrick was convinced he would be the only virgin loser on Earth not getting any action tonight.

‘Even Bob has game’, Patrick thought to himself as he remembered the numerous times his friend had disappeared at parties and after shows, a cute girl hanging onto his meaty bicep.

Patrick eventually pulled himself out of bed, donned his glasses, drug on some clean(ish) sweatpants, and wandered down to the kitchen.

Patricia Stumph was sitting at the kitchen table, a half eaten sandwich forgotten beside her as she furiously typed away on her laptop.

She looked up and smiled as she saw her son enter the kitchen.

“There’s my ball of sunshine!” she sing-songed with a knowing smirk.

“Haha very funny,” Patrick groused as he rifled through the cabinets for cereal or Pop-tarts.

Aha - Cinnamon Toast Crunch! Success!

Patrick opened the box and threw a handful of the sugary goodness in his mouth before addressing his mother.

“‘M gunna go out tonit, if is ok,” Patrick said around the cereal.

“That’s fine, Dear. Be home early and for heaven’s sake don’t talk with your mouth full!”

Patrick smacked a sugary kiss on his mother’s cheek before wandering into the living room, falling onto the couch and getting comfy before aimlessly channel surfing.

He must have fallen asleep, because when he next awoke the living room was dark, lit up only by a rerun of ‘Friends’ on the screen.

Patrick glanced at the clock above the TV.

Seven p.m..

He stretched and got up, going down the hall to the bathroom, turning on the shower before shedding his clothes and inspecting himself in the mirror over the sink.

The Patrick Martin Stumph reflected back at him was a bespectacled, short, pale, paunchy, thin-haired, baby-faced loser with a decent sized cock and a full bottom lip.

He was nothing special and he knew it. His only girlfriend Anna had dumped him after his cock had remained embarrassingly flaccid during an intense makeout session.

Patrick thought back to Anna, and what it was like to kiss her, hold her, touch her -

Nothing. His nether regions were DOA.

Patrick noticed the steam rising above the curtain, so he hopped into the shower and washed his hair and face.

As he washed his body, his eyes drifted shut, imagining strong olive-skinned arms surrounding his waist, a hot slick body pressing against his back, a set of sharp teeth nipping at his earlobe.

He was sure he felt the tattooed arm travel down his waist, hand starting to slowly stroke his member until it was fully erect. 

“Do you want me?” the Dark Adonis would whisper, hot and breathless in Patrick’s ear.

Patrick nodded, hooded eyes watching this dream man fall to his knees and immediately swallow his cock.

The older man looked up at him as his hand skillfully guided Patrick quickly in and out of his mouth. 

The dark Adonis pulled off Patrick, jerking him off roughly with his hand. 

“Come for me, Patrick,” he smirked, tongue licking obscenely over the head of the younger man’s member.

Patrick’s eyes flew open, moaning as he came, hard and hot, all over his own hand onto the shower wall.

He finished washing his body as his heartbeat began to slow down, one thought on his mind as he climbed out of the shower and reached for his towel.

Why did he have the feeling he somehow knew the identity of his dark Adonis?

Patrick didn’t put much thought into the clothes he would wear to the party - clean obscure local Jazz band tshirt, clingy black jeans (his favorite baggy ones were in the washer), red hoodie and his well-loved Chucks.

The only thing he had taken a few minutes to decide on was his hat - out of the many he owned, he finally settled on a black and white trucker hat proclaiming “I <3 Bingo”. ‘Might even be a conversation starter,’ he thought before laughing at the crazy idea of capturing the attention of a beautiful girl (or boy) tonight.

Patrick’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He took one last look in the mirror before running down the hall, throwing a “Bye, Mom!” over his shoulder while closing the front door behind him.

Bob clapped Patrick on the shoulder in greeting as he climbed into the Dart and buckled up.

“Ready for the night of your life, Marty?”

Patrick scoffed loudly.

“Very funny, Bob. I can already predict how this is going to play out: we arrive, you hook up, I spend the night nursing a beer alone in a corner, you come back with a huge grin, we leave.”

Bob chuckled. “You know me too well. Hey, but who knows? Maybe tonight’s your night! It is Valentine’s Day after all…”

“Yeah, right. My chances of getting laid are as likely as me winning the Mega Millions.”

Bob parked down the street from the house clearly hosting the party before turning to his sour-faced best friend.

“No sad faces on Valentine’s Day,” he said with a straight face before laughing loudly.

“Asshole,” Patrick said as he flipped Bob off before slamming the car door shut, jamming his hands in his pockets and heading off towards the two story house.

Looking around at all the McMansions and manicured lawns, Patrick recalled that Wilmette was one of the more affluent suburbs of Chicago. He wove his way through bodies up the steps leading to the house, wondering who lived here.

Doesn’t matter; he won’t be the one cleaning all this shit up.

Once inside the front door, Bob led them to the kitchen (his height was a big help in situations like this) where they both grabbed a beer.

They then headed into the living room; a dance floor had been established in front of the fireplace, while a makeshift bar had been fashioned in a corner along the opposite wall.

Bob and Patrick headed to an empty spot near the bar, talking shit about various partygoers and voicing their relief at the absence of heart-shaped decorations.

Patrick was listening to his best friend describing the latest disaster to befall his favorite drum set, nodding along while his eyes scanned the room, smiling at a couple who- 

There he was.

Patrick couldn’t believe it. On the other side of the room, talking and laughing with a tall mustachioed man and a lovely dark haired woman was his Dark Adonis.

Mister whiskey eyes, olive skin, big smile, and arm tattoos was dressed in a tiny baby blue polo with the collar popped and a pair of skinny jeans that could only have come from the Junior Girls department of Saks or Bloomingdale’s.

“Marty? Patrick, are you listening to me?”

Bob followed Patrick’s line of sight to the group across the room.

“Who, Pete Wentz, Scene King Extraordinaire? I thought you knew him. C’mon, I’ll introduce you!”

Before Patrick knew what was happening, he was being dragged across the room to the group of beautiful people located there.

“Hey, Bobby! Great to see you!” the short, dark, olive-skinned Adonis said. He then turned to Patrick flashing a bright smile. “And who’s your friend?”

“Pete Wentz, this is Patrick Stumph. Patrick, meet Pete, lead singer of Arma Angelus.”

Of course - that’s where he’d seen Pete. He’d never seen Arma live, only recognizing the frontman from the band’s flyers that papered numerous El stations around Chicago.

Patrick had heard the rumours that Pete Wentz was trouble - even Bob had told him about Pete’s wild escapades.

But the young man was finding it increasingly hard to think standing in front of that body in those tight clothes.

“Hello, Patrick,” the older man purred as his gaze slowly slid up and down Patrick’s body. “Mind if I call you ‘Trick?”

“Bob, you right asshole! Where have you been hiding yourself?” the taller man said as he grabbed Bob, pulling him into a bear hug.

Pete leaned into Patrick while his friend was being mauled, mouth dangerously close to the young man’s ear.

He smelled so good, Patrick thought. A dangerous combination of musk, cigarette smoke and cologne. 

“Think we’d have more fun if I called you Treat, eh, Trick?” Pete murmured, words heavy with sexual innuendo.

Patrick’s dick twitched. Actually twitched.

“Fuck, Pete, I can’t leave you alone for two seconds before you’re trying to seduce my friends.” Bob tugged Patrick’s sleeve, calling attention to the other people in the group. “Patrick, this is Gabe and Vicky. They’re part of an up and coming called Cobra Starship.”

“Nice to meet you, Patrick,” Gabe said as Vicky nodded her head in greeting.

“Bob, dear, you said the next time I saw you I could learn the secret to long lasting success…” Vicky purred, placing her hands on Bob’s chest and gazing up at him longingly.

Patrick elbowed Bob not-so-subtly in the ribs.

Bob winced before replying.

“Sorry Vicky. Some other time, I promise. Told my best friend here I’d make sure he had a great time tonight, and I mean to keep my word.”

Gabe grabbed Patrick’s hand, while Pete wrapped an arm possessively around the young man’s waist.

“Don’t worry, Bob,” Gabe replied, leering at Patrick. “We’ll make sure Patrick has loads of fun.”

Pete looked at Patrick with dark, kohl-rimmed eyes, head tilted, a filthy grin playing on his lips. “You DO want to get to know me better, right ‘Trick?”

Patrick was SO fucked.

He turned and nodded at his best friend before shooing him away with his hand.

Bob whooped loudly and picked Vicky up, causing her to let out a small scream as he threw her over his shoulder and headed up the stairs.

When Patrick turned back from the scene his best friend had made, he watched in confusion as Pete and Gabe shared a secret smile and a fist bump.

“Nice meeting you, Patrick.” The taller man said as he released Patrick’s hand. “I’ll be seeing you around…” 

Gabe then turned on his heel and spotted a stunning redhead. “Hey Babe, where have I been all your life?”

Patrick looked at Pete, who offered a sheepish grin.

“Two’s company, three’s a crowd, right, ‘Trick?”

Patrick blushed deeply before nodding his head.

“C’mon.” Pete laced his fingers with Patrick’s and led him through the kitchen to an empty loveseat in a dark corner of the adjacent family room.

Pete fell onto the small couch and patted the space beside him. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite…hard.”

Patrick rolled his eyes and shook his head before sitting down beside Pete, leaving six inches inches between them.

Pete frowned, but quickly replaced it with a friendly smile.

“So what do you do Patrick?”

Patrick pulled his trucker hat down, a nervous habit he had developed over the years. 

“I, um, I’m a senior at Glenbrook.”

Pete nodded. “A senior? I bet you’ll be glad to see that place in your rear-view mirror.”

Patrick nodded and tugged the brim of his hat again.

Pete shifted a few inches towards the younger man.

“You into music, ‘Trick?”

Patrick nodded. “Yeah! I listen to all kinds - pop, rock, punk, jazz, everything. Bob gets me into a lot of shows for free.”

“Ever been to one of my shows?” Pete asked curiously.

Patrick shook his head.

“Pity,” Pete replied. “I was hoping to get some feedback on my lyrics…”

“I really don’t write lyrics, just melodies.”

Pete stared deep into Patrick’s riptide eyes.

“Maybe one day we’ll make beautiful music together.”

Patrick smiled and shrugged. “Maybe,” he said coyly.

Pete picked up Patrick’s hand and began to play with his fingers.

“Callouses - guitar? Drums? Piano?”

“Yes,” Patrick replied quickly without thinking.

Pete chuckled. “No shit - you play all three? Next thing I know you’ll be telling me you sing, too.”

Patrick shook his head. “Nah, I suck at singing.”

Pete slowly reached out and traced Patrick’s lower lip with his thumb.

“You suck, huh?” Pete said, his voice thick with innuendo.

Patrick blushed, his dick hardening, obviously interested in the conversation.

Pete’s eyes briefly glanced down to the young man’s lap.

“What do you want, Patrick?”

Patrick found himself drowning in whiskey eyes. “To make my own music.”

Pete laughed before scooting closer to Patrick.

“That’s great and all, but I was asking what you want right here, right now?”

Patrick swallowed hard.

“I - I’m not sure.”

Pete grew serious before leaning slowly toward Patrick, his eyes never leaving the younger boy’s lips.

“How about this?” Pete said before closing the gap between their lips, placing a sweet chaste kiss on Patrick’s lips before withdrawing slightly.

Pete’s dark eyes examined Patrick’s face as his thumb traced the plush outline of his bottom lip.

“So sweet, ‘Trick, please…”

Pete’s soft words caused a rush of longing through Patrick’s body. 

Pete’s lips were getting closer and Patrick’s heart skipped a beat, the smell of him hypnotic beyond reason. 

Patrick parted his lips for Pete and felt the older man washing over him like a wave of warmth, curling his toes and heightening his senses.

Patrick’s whole body tingled; the feeling of Pete’s arms wrapped around him made Patrick feel as if he had been made specifically for this man’s embrace. 

Pete pulled him closer, claiming his mouth again and again, hungry and intense. 

By the time Patrick became aware of his hands, they had already slipped under Pete’s shirt, fingers stroking the smooth, warm, firm skin of Pete’s hips and back.

Pete pulled away with great reluctance, releasing a shaky breath before opening his eyes.

“Fuck ‘Trick - Patrick, will you go upstairs with me?”

Patrick quickly nodded, and was pulled to his feet by this Adonis who, until now, was only attainable in his fantasies.

Pete wove his fingers tightly with Patrick’s, leading him back through the kitchen, across the now-dim living room and up the stairs. He knocked on every door until he heard no answer, swinging the door open and ushering the young boy inside.

Pete locked the door before turning, eyes darkened with lust and desire.

He grabbed Patrick’s hips and spun him around, pressing the younger man against the door with his body. 

Patrick only had time to softly whimper Pete’s name before the dark-haired man claimed his mouth in a dirty, scorching kiss.

Tongues met and clashed, neither one claiming victory, neither one admitting defeat.

Pete finally pulled back and jerked roughly on the zipper of Patrick’s hoodie. “Off,” he demanded darkly while pulling his own polo over his head and tossing it to the side.

Patrick glanced down to undo his zipper and 

Oh.

Oh shit.

There it was, the batheart tattoo in all its glory, spreading out like Patrick’s personal beacon above Pete’s happy trail. 

Patrick felt his dick harden painfully, precum now moistening his boxers.

Patrick threw his hoodie to the side, gasping when the older man buried his face in his neck, mouthing at the young man’s clavicle and nipping at his Adam's apple.

“Can I mark you up? Please, ‘Trick, wanna leave traces of me all over you…”

“Yeah, want that too Pete,” Patrick said before nipping at the skin under Pete’s ear. 

Pete pulled back suddenly, shaking his head violently. “Not on me, ‘Trick. No marks on me.”

Patrick opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by Pete’s hands trailing down the front of his tshirt, thumbs rubbing over tightened nipples before coming to rest on his hips and grabbing the bottom hem.

“Get rid of this,” Pete mumbled before tearing Patrick’s shirt over his head. “ “I want to see all of you, need to feel you against me.”

Pete pulled Patrick to him, latching onto the younger man’s collarbone, using his teeth to rub the skin raw before moving on to leave matching marks on his neck, his chest, above his left nipple...

“I want to touch you Patrick. Will you let me? Can I touch you, ‘Trick, please?”

“Yeah,” Patrick breathed, head spinning, existing somewhere between beloved fantasies and unimaginable reality.

“Say my name,” Pete demanded, his tone dark.

“Yes, Pete, please!”

Pete quickly opened Patrick’s belt and made short work of the button and zipper, eyes never leaving the younger man’s lips.

Patrick hesitantly touched Pete’s cheek.

“Are you real?”

Pete gave a dirty chuckle.

‘Let me show you just how real I am…”

Pete licked his right hand and stuck it down inside Patrick’s best pair of black boxers.

Patrick had died and gone to Heaven. He had somehow managed to win the sex lottery. Everything had now narrowed down to Pete, Pete, Pete.

Pete stroked him slowly at first, root to tip before twisting his hand around the head.

“You’re well-hung, so much to handle. Is this the way you like it, ‘Trick? Can I make you come this way?” 

Patrick let a small whimper before slapping a hand over his mouth.

Pete increased the tempo of his strokes, licking and sucking on Patrick’s earlobe.

“C’mon Babe, don’t be mean. Show me what a good boy I am. Come for me, Patrick.”

Patrick cried out Pete’s name as he spilled over the older man’s hand embarrassingly fast.

Pete quickly pulled his hand out of Patrick’s jeans and strode over to the dresser, using tissues to clean off his hand, giving Patrick enough time to put his shirt back on and tuck himself back in his jeans.

Pete walked slowly back to Patrick, swaying his hips, right hand traveling slowly over his batheart tattoo to cover his very obvious erection.

“Satisfied, ‘Trick?”

Patrick, blissed out and sex-drunk, could only nod.

Pete gently grabbed Patrick’s hips and turned them around, Pete now standing against the door.

“Will you do something for me now, ‘Trick?”

Pete ran his thumb gently over Patrick’s bottom lip, kissing it before continuing.

“I would love to see this wrapped around my cock. Would you do that for me, Patrick?”

In an instant Patrick was on his knees, quickly opening Pete’s belt and jeans, shoving them halfway down his thighs before pausing to touch the tattoo that had been haunting his thoughts.

Pete stroked Patrick’s cheek.

“You like it? My own personal logo. Go ahead, kiss it. I want to feel your mouth on me, ‘Trick.”

Patrick didn’t need to be told twice. He leaned in, kissing the middle of the tattoo before tracing the outside of it with his tongue.

Pete lightly hit the back of his head against the door.

“Fuck, Babe, your tongue is magical!”

Patrick placed kisses on the skin between Pete’s navel and his red, thick, hard member before dipping his head and licking a thick stripe up the underside of the organ.

Pete knocked Patrick’s hat off, burying his hands in the younger man’s hair, urging Patrick to take him between his lush lips.

Patrick had never given head before (or received it for that matter), but he’d watched enough porn to learn the basics.

He wrapped his hand around the base of Pete’s dick, giving it a few teasing strokes before taking the head in his mouth.

“You do that so well, Babe. Keep going, just like that.”

Patrick took the hardened cock further into his mouth, looking up through glassy eyes to see the beautiful Adonis staring down at him, clutching his hair with one hand, rubbing Patrick’s now-filled bottom lip with the other.

“Fuck, ‘Trick, you look like sin personified,” Pete whispered solemnly to the younger man.

Smiling around the older man’s dick, Patrick moaned at the praise, causing Pete to quietly beg for more.

So Patrick gave him more, playing with Pete’s balls while choking himself willingly on the older man’s cock.

Patrick’s finger wandered down to gently circle Pete’s entrance, causing the other man to gasp and come hard down Patrick’s throat.

Patrick pulled back, allowing Pete to slip out of his mouth before looking up and swallowing.

Pete gulped loudly, “Fuck, ‘Trick, Youre so… I, I’ve never felt…”

Pete jerked Patrick roughly to his feet, wrapping his arms tightly around the young man and burying his face in the pale skin of Patrick’s neck.

“Patrick, do you believe in fate? I...my head and my heart..you’re not like...I can’t - “

Pete pulled back, placing a soft hand on Patrick’s cheek. 

“You felt it too, right? I didn’t imagine it…”

Before Patrick could reply, there was a loud knock on the door.

Pete held a finger up to his lips.

“Pete! Are you in there? How about giving the rest of us a chance to score? Selfish bastard…” 

Patrick heard what sounded like Gabe and a female giggling to each other.

Pete’s hands were shaking as he released Patrick, watching as the older man tucked himself back in his jeans and put his shirt back on.

Pete’s gentle, vulnerable demeanor vanished in an instant.

“Thanks, Babe,” Pete winked before unlocking the door and heading downstairs with his friends.

Patrick swiped his trucker hat off the floor, placing it firmly on his hair before zipping up his hoodie.

Before he left the room, he gave himself a triumphant little fist pump.

He’d finally scored - and with the lead singer of Arma no less!

Bob was never going to believe this!

Patrick had begun to head for the stairs when he heard his name drifting up from the bottom of the staircase.

He froze on the top step as he heard the conversation continue.

“So? How’d you do with Patrick, Loverboy? Ready to fork over the cash?”

Patrick heard Pete chuckle.

“He gave it up in record time. Do I EVER lose?” Pete scoffed. “Never doubt the Wentz charm. Now hand over the ten bucks, Saporta.”

“Damn, I wish I could have had those lips wrapped around me, but sloppy seconds aren’t my style.”

Patrick’s heart stopped, waiting for Pete to defend him…

“Maybe another time it’ll be your turn,” Patrick heard Pete say. “Damn, I would love to keep his medford ass around, but I have a rep to maintain. Everyone will think I’ve lost my touch…”

“Or maybe they’ll think you’ve started doing charity work!” Gabe laughed.

“Besides, I’m only gay above the waist,” Pete insisted.

“Yeah, okay Pete. Whatever you say. C’mon, let’s go grab some drinks from the kitchen. Andy Hurley, you red-headed asshole, when did you get into town…”

Patrick swallowed around the knot in his throat, ears pounding, embarrassment threatening to devour him.

He had to get out, leave before Pete and his crew returned from the kitchen.

If they had talked that way when he wasn’t around, he sure as hell wasn’t gonna stay and suffer through hours of snickering and pointed looks after news of Pete’s conquest spread.

Patrick tugged his hat down low and walked quickly down the stairs, only looking up to locate the front door. 

It seemed to take forever to reach the exit, but after numerous accidental shoulder checks and several muttered “excuse me’s” Patrick flung the front door open wide and dashed down the steps, walking down the driveway to the sidewalk below that would take him to Bob’s Dart parked nearby.

He was never more thankful than now that his best friend kept the doors to his car unlocked, welcoming anyone stupid enough to want his POS to go ahead and steal it.

Patrick opened the passenger door and got in, slamming it shut behind him.

The whole evening ran through his head: their first meeting, their first kiss on the loveseat, their tryst in the dark followed by Pete’s macho bullshit.

The full weight of what had just happened suddenly dropped on Patrick.

He had been seduced by Pete Wentz, freely offering the older man his kisses, his mouth, even his heart, only to be cruelly rejected.

All so Pete could win a ten dollar bet.

Patrick shook his head incredulously.

A ten dollar bet? Ten dollars? 

Was that what he had willingly given up everything he held sacred for?

Stupid.

Stupid, ugly, fat fucking loser.

He was an idiot to even remotely think someone like Pete Wentz of Arma Angelus would deliberately want him.

Pete could have anyone - hell, he probably already had.

No, Patrick thought with self-disgust, Pete had seduced him for one reason and one reason only.

To flaunt his sexual prowess while adding another notch to his bedpost.

Patrick swallowed hard, not wanting to shed any tears over that piece of shit Pete Wentz.

But it was no use.

Patrick punched the dashboard until his knuckles were bloody before collapsing in a sobbing heap, arms wrapped around himself in a cocoon of self-preservation.

His sobs had ebbed by the time the driver’s side door opened, Bob’s weight falling into the driver’s seat.

“Marty! I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Why did you leave without telling me?”

Patrick only stared at his lap, arms crossed tightly over his chest, willing Bob to just shut up and take him home.

Bob stilled beside him, cautiously touching Patrick’s arm. “Patrick, You OK?”

Patrick jerked his arm away, pissed at Bob.

It was all his fucking fault.

Hadn’t Bob promised not to leave him? Didn’t he promise Patrick a good time? 

Patrick scoffed angrily to himself. Yeah, he’d had loads of fun.

Patrick turned his fury-filled face towards his best friend.

“Shut the fuck up and take me home.”

Bob frowned deeply. “Patrick, what happ-”

Patrick snapped. “Bob, for fuck’s sake, please leave me the hell alone and take me home right now!”

Bob’s eyes filled with confusion, realizing that he had inadvertently hurt his best friend in some way.

“Okay Patrick. Okay.”

Bob drove Patrick straight home, trying to recall anything that had happened earlier that might have upset his best friend.

When they reached his house, Patrick shot out of the car and flew inside, his mom’s “Have fun, Dear?” prompting another wave of tears and heartache.

Hurrying down the hall, Patrick nodded his head towards his mother before shutting and locking his bedroom door.

Patrick tore his eyes away from the amber liquid and stood, stretching his slightly muscled arms above a slimmer, shapelier body.

He picked up his glass of whiskey, placed it on the counter of the wet bar, and headed towards the music room, thoughts turning to Bob.

It had taken Patrick several days to calm down and realize that none of what had happened to him was Bob’s doing.

After all, hadn’t Patrick waved Bob off to his own private party after being enticed by Pete?

Patrick had finally called Bob and apologized, breaking down while explaining everything that had happened from the time Bob left his side until he found Patrick in the Dart.

To say Bob was furious would be putting it quite lightly. 

After calling Pete a cowardly, juvenile bastard, he begged Patrick to let him beat the “ever-loving shit” out of Pete, promising to “kick his scrawny ass up and down the Magnificent Mile before placing him on the steps of the Field Museum with a sign around his neck saying ‘World’s Shittiest Prick.’”

Patrick had to give Bob major points for creativity.

But Patrick had calmed him down, assuring Bob that Karma would eventually catch up with Pete Wentz.

One good thing had come out of the entire debacle though - Patrick was now one hundred percent sure he was gay.

He had come out to his parents and siblings several weeks later during Easter dinner, receiving more love and support than he thought he would from his family. 

The next day he told Bob, who hugged him, saying “So brave - I’m proud of you, Marty. But I’m still gonna play hard to get.”

Patrick had playfully pushed Bob away. “Asshole.”

Patrick entered the music room and sank onto the black leather sofa which beautifully complimented his white baby grand.

He waxed nostalgic, thinking back to his high school graduation, his family and Bob cheering loudly as he walked across the stage. 

Patrick’s parents knew that music was Patrick’s main passion in life, so it was no surprise when their son bypassed college, and at nineteen, accepted an entry level position at the up-and-coming Musify Music Studio in Chicago, commuting every day to and from work.

He dedicated himself to the studio, putting all his time and passion into the music he helped produce, offering to serve as a last-minute stand-in for an absent band member from time to time.

At twenty, Patrick was introduced to a young, dark, tattooed blonde at a studio function. Andy Mrotek was a drummer who had short, curly blonde hair, sun-kissed skin, and a colorful tattooed sleeve on his left arm. For some reason Andy thought Patrick was fascinating, asking Patrick to come home with him after knowing each other only a few hours. 

Once inside Andy’s modest apartment Patrick pushed down all his doubts and fears, letting the tattooed man undress him and lead him to the bedroom.

Andy gently laid Patrick on the bed, kissing him and working him open slowly, whispering words of praise and approval which gave Patrick the courage to allow Andy to push his sheathed member inside his tight entrance.

Patrick hid his face in Andy’s neck, both men riding the waves of desire until reaching a satisfying climax.

Patrick had left soon after, riding the El home, wiping away hot tears he swore weren’t a result of losing his virginity to the wrong person.

Patrick had run into Andy a few more times at various industry events, always ending with a fast fuck at Andy’s place before beating a hasty retreat home to Glenview.

Eventually, the inevitable happened; an ultimatum over coffee at Andy’s favorite diner.

Andy wanted a relationship; Patrick only wanted fun.

He hadn’t meant to break Andy’s heart.

With no love life to speak of, Patrick began to work out diligently, counting every calorie he put in his mouth and begging Bob to go jogging with him every Sunday evening.

By twenty-one, he had dedicated all his time to his job, working his way up to the position of Junior Sound Engineer. His boss had admired his drive, determination, and passion for perfection (the increase in revenue was also a plus).

Patrick was living in Chicago at twenty-two, renting a nice-ish one bedroom apartment in a decent enough part of the city within walking distance to the studio. 

At home by himself, he was forced to face the fact that he was often lonely; he thought about getting a dog, but knew his hectic schedule wouldn’t allow it. 

When the loneliness became too much to bear Patrick would put on his tightest clothes and prowl the local bars and clubs, knowing but not dwelling on the fact that he was on the hunt for a dark skinned, brown eyed tattooed guy willing to help take his mind off everything for an hour or two.

They would take Patrick home and Patrick would use them as he saw fit before disappearing long before the sun rose. 

Not one of his hook-ups knew his real name, or where he lived.

And Patrick liked it that way.

When he was twenty three, Patrick’s reputation in the music industry spread, creating chances for him to work on solo projects including a score for a television show as well as a theme song for a roller coaster ride at one of the major vacation destinations.

He was hooked.

Having the creative freedom to make his own music was like a balm to Patrick’s soul, his piano became a lover that never humiliated, disappointed, or demanded too much of him.

The Chicago studio had grown exponentially in the years Patrick had been there, so it was only natural they offered Patrick the Lead Sound Engineer position when the L. A. branch of Musify was opened.

After talking it over with his parents and Bob, Patrick accepted the job in Los Angeles, moving to the City of Angels just after he turned twenty-four.

He had never felt more free creatively; his new position at Musify allowed him to make whatever kind of music he wanted, as long as he continued to help other bands perfect their sound.

Late at night, however, the loneliness would become almost too much to bear.

Music, he thought, was a loyal, dependable friend and confidant, but it was no substitute for a tender, passionate lover.

Now, at twenty-five, Patrick sat in the middle of his favorite room in the house he had bought upon arriving in Los Angeles.

Looking around him, he took in all the awards - silver, gold, and platinum records he had helped to shape into modern day masterpieces, shelves waiting to be filled with Grammys and Tonys.

He was currently scoring a low-budget movie, a love story between two women which, he was glad to read, had a happy ending.

Patrick sighed deeply, thinking of how Karma had made sure a happy ending eluded Pete Wentz .

He’d never heard from Pete again, but he knew about the late-night freewriting online journal entries; breaking up Arma Angelus by cheating with his bandmate’s girlfriend; cries for help masked as suicide attempts in the parking lots of varoius stores; and finally - Patrick’s shamefully sadistic favorite - a summer fling with another male bassist which ended in severe heartache and rejection for Pete.

Patrick stood up and made his way back to the piano, sitting on the white plush bench before stretching his fingers and playing an Arma song he remembered from so long ago…

You laughed off my affections  
While I passed by your direction  
I should have known from your walk, yeah  
It was the end of you  
It's not like I don't respect your opinion  
Quick wit lips, just rip me apart  
Sometimes, it's times like this, yeah  
I got a big mouth  
And maybe you could handle shutting it up  
A simple contradiction  
Could shake my whole foundation  
Parker Lewis can't lose  
Taking back every step towards you  
Still failing at everything I do  
In the meantime just talking with my shoes  
Converse with my Converse  
At least they hear a word I say  
And scrutinize it  
Just as far as they can tell what I'm getting at  
Tied my tongue around my neck  
For the last time  
It's not like I don't respect your opinion  
Quick wit lips, just tear me apart  
Sometimes, it's times like this, yeah  
I got a big mouth  
And maybe you could handle shutting it up  
A simple contradiction  
Could shake my whole foundation  
Parker Lewis can't lose, yeah  
Yeah  
Yeah  
This is the last song about you  
This is the last song that I waste on you

Patrick let the last note trail off into the silence.

He got up and walked down the hallway which ended in the master bedroom, dominated by an intricately carved four post bed, large dresser, and chest of drawers, out of which he withdrew a pair of black boxer briefs, a plain white tshirt and black sweats.

He turned and entered the en suite, flipping switches to turn on the lights as well as the heated marble mosaic floor tiles. Patrick was glad to see Hilda (his housekeeper and second mom) had draped a towel on the heated rack before leaving earlier.

Patrick turned the water on in the frameless glass shower, multiple shower heads creating a soothing waterfall effect.

He undressed and examined his reflection in the mirror running the entire length of the marble-topped double vanity.

Contacts had taken the place of his thick, black plastic framed glasses.

He had gotten hair plugs as soon as he could afford them, paying a good deal of money every few weeks to keep them platinum blonde.

His cheekbones were more pronounced, lips described by past flings as lush and sinful.

He was not skinny, but a healthy weight; still trying to lose the last bit of baby fat clinging to his hips. 

His chest was hairless now thanks to electrolysis; stupid sideburns long gone thanks to Gilette.

His legs were toned, tapering down to strong calves and ankles.

Pubic hair meticulously manscaped and his penis - well, he’d not had any complaints yet, right? 

Wrong!! An unwanted voice in his head shouted back. Pete wasn’t the least bit impressed.

Patrick turned and shook his head while stepping into the roomy shower, stopping the thought in its tracks.

He had done all of this for himself! Patrick thought angrily. For his own health, his own self-esteem, not for some pathetic asshole from years ago who found him sorely lacking, who used and humiliated him before easily discarding him like a piece of unwanted gum on the bottom of his shoe.

Patrick picked up the shampoo bottle and poured a small amount into his hand, using it as an excuse to harshly rub his scalp as if he could rid himself of the unwanted memories.

Memories that included dark eyes peering down at Patrick, a sharp inhale from full lips as he worshipped four inches of inked skin above an enticing trail of well-groomed dark hair. 

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back under the water, rinsing his hair out before pumping body wash into his hand.

He had been so stupid as a teenager, Patrick thought as he washed his body, so gullible and naive.

Patrick’s eyes slowly opened, tears welling in his eyes as he was flooded with feelings he had kept buried for years.

Patrick hit his fist against the tiles of the shower over and over.

He did NOT want Pete Wentz! He definitely WAS NOT in love with Pete Wentz!

His heart most certainly did not belong to Pete Wentz.

But it would be impossible, Patrick conceded, to offer another man something he didn’t even own, hadn’t owned for nearly eight years.

Patrick rinsed the soap from his body, turned off the shower, and stepped onto the mat.

As he got dressed, he remembered all the coded lines written in Pete’s journal entries, the cryptic lyrics of his songs before Arma ended, and the messages of regret he wove into every interview he gave.

Patrick was sure none of it was about him, and even if it was, he really couldn’t be bothered to give a shit.

Patrick Stump (he had lost the ‘h’ a few years ago) had grown into a successful, handsome, happy, openly gay man.

Patrick stood and stared at his entire reflection in the mahogany-framed full-length mirror located in the corner of his bedroom.

Congratulations, Patrick Stump. You sure showed him. You grew into a man with completely healthy attitudes on looks, relationships, and love.

You should be really proud of yourself. You got exactly what you told Pete you wanted.

Patrick turned away from the mirror and exited the bedroom, not wanting to deal with the hard truths reflected back at him.

Patrick had wor  
Patric worked through lunch, choosing instead to eat a hearty salad for dinner in front of a marathon of RuPaul’s Drag Race (he loved season 5, especially the bitchy Rolaskatox queens). 

He tried to compose a bit before bed, but became quickly frustrated when the right notes didn’t flow from his fingers.

Eventually, he gave up and wandered into the bedroom, pulling back the intricately embroidered imperial purple comforter, climbing in and burrowing down into the soft lilac sheets covering the mattress.

Crossing his arms underneath his head, Patrick lay on his bed and stared up at the stars he had commissioned a local artist to paint on the prussian blue ceiling.

It was only late at night that he allowed thoughts of Pete to roam freely inside his head.

Patrick knew Pete was living in L.A.; he had moved here long before Patrick.

After Arma he had tried creating his own music label, establishing a clothing line, even acting in a few teen-oriented television shows, each endeavor failing to flourish. 

Pete finally achieved fame when he caught the attention of a famous young singer, following her around the world and escorting her to every major award show.

But mega-stardom embraced Pete when the avowed heterosexual male had been caught by the singer’s father with his pants around his ankles, his cock in the mouth of the very masculine guitar player from his girlfriend’s band.

By the next morning, Pete had made the headline of every major gossip rag from the U.S. to Japan.

He had married very quickly following the scandal, but the young lady divorced him after only a few months, citing ‘irreconcilable differences’.

Pete had begun taking DJing gigs, the infamy which followed him never failing to draw large crowds hoping to experience first-hand the much-heralded Wentz charm.

Pete’s most recent marriage had taken place after an infamous vice-filled gig in Vegas, rumoured to have been officiated by an Elvis impersonator.

The gossip rags reported he’d married a stripper and had it annulled the next day.

It seemed Pete Wentz was a mess.

Yes, Patrick thought, punching his pillow as he turned over, I just wish sometimes he could be MY mess.

Patrick drifted off to sleep, thoughts of hot whiskey eyes, sun-kissed olive skin, and devilish smiles luring him into pleasant dreams.

  
The next afternoon, Patrick sent a text to Bob, causing his best friend to immediately text back “Are you high?”

After much assurance that he was perfectly fine, Patrick sat on his couch with a cup of Earl Grey Tea, finishing Season 5 of RPDG, constantly glancing at the phone, waiting for Bob to text him back.

When his phone buzzed a short time later, Patrick picked it up with a shaking hand, hitting the green button. 

Patrick heard a sharp intake of breath, followed by a quiet sigh.

“Hello, ‘Trick.”

The next day, Patrick arrived at the Hideaway Cafe fifteen minutes before his scheduled meeting with Pete.

He still wasn’t sure why he had agreed to meet the older man; he only knew something in Pete’s voice sounded off.

The coffee shop was aptly named - it was a small brown A-frame building complete with white gingerbread trim tucked away from the main road, hidden behind a large green hedgerow.

Patrick took a deep breath before opening the door to the cafe, stepping in and glancing around the quiet space as a small bell over the door announced his arrival.

His eyes eventually landed on a man nursing a cup of coffee in a back booth.

Pete looked up and offered Patrick a shy wave.

Patrick nodded and slowly approached the back booth, using the time to reconcile the man before him with the boy he had known so long ago.

Young Pete Wentz had been colorful, charismatic, and cocksure, constantly reminding everyone he was the BMOC, Chicago’s well-loved Scene King.

This Pete Wentz, however, sat hunched over his coffee cup, wearing a baggy sweater and loose jeans, long greying hair partially hiding his face, dull brown eyes ringed with dark circles instead of eyeliner.

Patrick slid into the booth opposite Pete, removed his sunglasses and waited for the older man to speak.

“You look really great, Patrick. Time has been kind to you.”

Patrick bristled at Pete’s comment; he did not need Pete Wentz’ stamp of approval.

“Look, Pete. I’m on a tight schedule, so if you could just get to the point…”

Pete looked down at his coffee cup, cleared his throat, playing with the empty Splenda packets laying by his napkins.

“I - I was wondering if you would be willing to meet my therapist.”

Patrick stared at Pete, puzzled by the odd request.

He had imagined their conversation going numerous ways, but this was one he had never even considered.

After several minutes of silence, Pete looked up, unshed tears threatening to spill over as he swallowed audibly.

“I’m working on improving myself. She’s helping me come to grips with my shitty past - kind of like a twelve-step program for recovering assholes.

I’m trying to own up to the damage I’ve caused, and, well, she’s helped me realize you’re the one I…”

Pete ran his hands down his face, clearing his throat before continuing.

“I know I have no right whatsoever to ask you to help me after everything I did to you, and if you say no I’ll totally understand, but I at least wanted to reach out and try.”

Patrick sat stoically across from his one-time crush, afraid if he even moved a muscle he would fall apart, something he was unwilling to do in front of Pete.

Pete leaned forward, hesitantly placing his hands closer to Patrick’s.

“I need you to come, Patrick. Please. For me.”

Painful memories of a dark room and an awkward tryst flooded Patrick’s mind, blocking out all other thoughts.

He refused to do this. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

“I...I…” Patrick stood abruptly, quickly placing his sunglasses back over his eyes before throwing two fives on the table. “Goodbye, Pete.”

Patrick heard Pete call his name as he rushed through the cafe, not stopping until safely inside his luxury SUV, heading back into traffic, desperate to lose himself in the demands of his duties at Musify.

He struggled all day, having a hard time concentrating on his work before giving up all together and heading home early, homemade shrimp vindaloo and a bottle of wine keeping him company as he dissected Pete’s speech, searching for any deceit or vitriol hidden in the older man’s words.

Shaken to his core and unable to sort out his feelings alone, he called Bob, sobbing as he related the entire meeting to his best friend.

Patrick was caught totally off guard by his best friend’s advice.

“I love you like a brother, Marty, and I would do anything for you. I’ve always wanted you to be happy, but for years now, I’ve watched you hide behind an illusion of contentment and joy. You weren’t meant to live your life alone and unloved, Patrick, of that I’m sure. Pete may or may not be your soulmate, but I think you owe it to yourself to stop running and find out once and for all.”

Patrick felt he had his answer; had known it all along. Bob’s blessing only made his resolve stronger.

“Love you too Cory, and thanks for everything”

A week after meeting with Pete at the Hideaway Cafe, Patrick texted Pete a single word, full of both uncertainty and cautious hope.

“Yes.”

Patrick began conjoint therapy with Pete, weekly sessions guided by a tough Brooklyn broad named Judy, often filled with open discussions of rejection, hurt, fear, pain, shame, and regret which left them both feeling raw and vulnerable. 

Three months into therapy, Patrick walked into Judy’s office, only to discover the therapist trying to calm a visibly agitated Pete.

Patrick closed the door and approached the couch where the two were sitting.

“What’s going on?” Patrick asked, baffled by Pete’s behavior.

“Patrick, Pete would like to have a structured discussion with you today,” Judy replied, keeping close watch on Pete.

Patrick knew in therapy-speak structured discussion equaled refereed fight.

Patrick sat down in the chair opposite Pete, nodding to let the others know he was ready.

Judy turned to Pete.

“Pete, why don’t you -”

Before Judy finished her thought Pete jumped up from the couch and leaned down to Patrick, their faces a few scant inches apart.

“You. Fucked. The Butcher.”

Patrick furrowed his eyebrows, trying to decipher what Pete was talking about..

Before Patrick could reply, Pete continued talking, his voice eerily calm.

“Does the name Andy Mrotek ring any bells?”

Patrick frowned, figuring out quickly where this was headed.

“Yes,” Patrick answered calmly. “He was one of my very first lovers.”

Pete recoiled as if physically slapped.

“So it’s true? I had to find out from Billy Beckett that a guy named The Butcher fucked you?”

Patrick stood up, getting right back into Pete’s face, going in for the kill.

“Yes,” he said sweetly, “In fact, he took my virginity.”

Judy held up the timeout sign. “I think we all should just take a minute to -”

Pete began pacing, choosing to ignore the therapist’s advice and continue raking Patrick over the coals, trying his damndest to provoke the younger man.

“Did you like it? Did he fuck you good? Did you beg for his cock? I knew you’d be a cock slut. I can just hear you now - ‘Give me your meat, Butcher. Fuck me with your fat sausage, Butcher. Ruin me for vegetables forever, Butcher. Fill me with-”

“ENOUGH!” shouted Patrick, beet-red and panting with fury. “What’s wrong, Pete, jealous? You really wanna know? Yeah, he fucked me. Yeah, I enjoyed it. Yeah, I loved that he made me feel special and wanted and desired. Why do you even give a shit, Pete? You sure as hell found it easy enough to reject me the first time we met!”

Pete stopped pacing and turned to Patrick, his face softening slightly.

“‘Trick, I-”

Patrick shook his head and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “No, you made it quite clear that night to me and everyone else at the party that the mere thought of fucking me was nothing short of repulsive. I was good enough for you to stick your cock down my throat, but not desirable enough to fuck. Isn’t that right, Pete?”

Pete stepped towards Patrick, anger quickly dissipating.

“I wish I could go back ‘Trick, go back and change so many things. But back then it just wasn’t the right time to-”

Any control Patrick had over his temper was now forgotten.

“But it was the right time with Mikey, wasn’t it Pete?” Patrick shouted. “Tall, skinny, handsome, perfect Mikey Way. He sure as hell was more than willing to help you ditch that pesky “gay above the waist” bullshit. Too bad he found sticking his dick in that FEMALE bass player of From First To Last far superior to-”

Patrick was silenced by a right hook to his jaw, falling back on his ass into his earlier seat.

Pete loomed menacingly above him, eyes almost black, huffing heavy breaths onto Patrick’s face.

“Shut. The. Fuck. UP!”

Patrick’s blood ran cold, his heart shattering into a million pieces.

“You loved him,” Patrick whispered. “You still do.”

Judy gently pulled Pete’s shoulder until he was safely sitting on the opposite couch.

She took a deep breath and straightened her blouse before speaking.

“I think we all need to take the next two weeks and spend this time apart, reflecting on what was revealed here today, and how we can move forward.”

Patrick stood to leave, emotions raw, more than ready to go back to work and drown himself in his one comfort - music.

Pete placed a hesitant hand on Patrick’s arm.

“”Trick, please...”

Patrick shrugged Pete’s hand off, leaving without a backwards glance.

Two weeks later, after numerous late-night candid calls and texts to Bob, Patrick once again entered Judy’s office, a mask of apathy on his face.

Pete jumped up as soon as the door opened, waves of humility and contrition flowing from his entire being.

“Patrick, I am so sorry. I’m an asshole and a fuck-up. I realize I’ve done nothing to deserve even one second of your time or attention.”

Pete took a hesitant step closer to the younger man.

“I don’t want there to be any secrets between us, Patrick. It’s true - I still have feelings for Mikey.”

Patrick nodded tersely, fighting back tears of pain.

“But with your help, ‘Trick, I’m slowly turning into the man I always wanted to be. Everything in my life has become more focused, more enjoyable, and more meaningful since you’ve come back into it.”

“I know I’m running out of chances, but I just have to beg for one more. Please, ‘Trick.”

Now armed with the truth, Patrick stood in the doorway, silent witness to the battle between his heart and his head.

A few minutes passed before Patrick sat down in his favorite chair, Pete quickly sitting on the couch across from him.

“All right. Where do we go from here?” Patrick asked Judy, his eyes staring straight into Pete’s.

  
Patrick was twenty-six when he fully forgave Pete, slowly becoming one of the older man’s closest friends and confidants, full of pride and admiration as he stood by Pete’s side when he came out as bisexual to his friends, family, and eventually, the public.

On his twenty-seventh birthday, Patrick was pleasantly surprised when Pete asked him out on their first official date.

They strolled leisurely through Barnsdall Art Park, admiring and discussing the exhibits before settling down on a quilt to watch a jazz ensemble play while enjoying a picnic of cheese, prosciutto, crackers and wine.

It was there, under a warm sun and cloudless sky, that Patrick and Pete shared their (second) first kiss.

The night before Patrick turned twenty-eight, while lazily making out under a cozy quilt on the couch in Pete’s living room after watching a Star Wars movie, Pete whispered the very first ‘I Love You’ in Patrick’s ear, prompting the younger man to stand up and offer Pete his hand.

“Show me.”

Pete took the younger man’s hand and led him into his bedroom, slowly undressing Patrick before quickly shedding his own clothes.

Pete stepped back, hand hesitating before touching the pale skin covering Patrick’s collarbone, moving down to the tight, rose-hued nipples before coming to land on the soft supple skin on gracing the younger man’s hips.

Pete swallowed audibly. “I had no idea, Patrick, no idea how beautiful you truly are…”

Patrick blushed deeply as his naked Adonis sat on the bed and scooted backward, fingers entwined with Patrick’s, beckoning him to follow.

Patrick soon found himself covered by Pete’s beautiful body, determined to kiss every inch of tattooed skin he could reach while pinned beneath his lover.

“Fuck, ‘Trick, you don’t know how many times over the years I’ve dreamed of doing this… I want to make love to you like I should have done all those years ago.”

Patrick placed his hand gently on Pete’s face, cupping his cheek.

“No regrets, tonight, no apologies. I need you, Pete. Make me yours.”

Pete leaned down and kissed Patrick deeply, working his way down the man’s pale neck, shoulders, chest, nipples, and navel with his mouth before hovering over the younger man’s cock.

“So glad to give this to you, ‘Trick,” Pete said before taking Patrick in his mouth, hands running up and down the other man’s sides before resting on his hips. Pete showed no hesitancy while swallowing Patrick down, making the pale man gasp and squirm underneath him.

Pete pulled off and gave Patrick a dirty grin. “So responsive for me, ‘Trick, so fucking hot. Is it okay if I -,” he motioned to the lube and condoms on the side table. Patrick hesitated before nodding.

Pete sensed his lover’s uncertainty, quickly journeying back up to cradle Patrick’s face.

“We can stop any time you want, ‘Trick. I won’t be upset. I just want you to be comfortable.”

Patrick leaned up and kissed Pete before placing open-mouthed kisses on his neck and shoulders.

“I don’t want to use a condom, Pete. I want to feel you inside me. I’m clean, and I’ve always dreamed there would be nothing between us our first time.”

Pete pulled Patrick’s face back up and captured his lips, licking into his mouth before alternately sucking and biting Patrick’s bottom lip.

Patrick could feel their hard, leaking cocks rubbing against each other between them; he didn’t know if he could take much more.

“Pete…” Patrick moaned.

“Fuck, yeah Patrick, I’m clean too. Can’t wait to be inside you…”

Patrick gently pushed down on Pete’s shoulder and the older man took the hint, kissing his way back down Patrick’s body, stopping to suck on both rosy nipples before settling between Patrick’s thighs.

Pete popped open the cap on the lube, pouring some in his hand before placing the bottle back on the nightstand.

He gently pushed Patrick’s thighs farther apart, pressing kisses to the pale skin he found there, his slick finger hovering over Patrick’s entrance. 

“I’m scared, ‘Trick. I want to be so good for you…” Pete whispered, dark whiskey eyes full of uncertainty.

Patrick stroked Pete’s cheek, smiling reassuringly down at the older man.

“Don’t you think we’ve waited long enough for happiness, Pete? I know one thing’s for certain - only you can complete me. I love you so much...”

Pete captured Patrick’s lips in a heartfelt kiss, conveying the sweetness of passion, a million loving thoughts condensed into a moment.

Patrick writhed and moaned with abandon as Pete worked him open, whispering “Fuck, ‘Trick, I could come just from watching you ride my fingers.”

Patrick reached up and gently grabbed Pete’s long dark hair, pulling him down into a dirty open-mouthed kiss.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Patrick hissed. “I want you inside me now.”

Pete nodded, grabbing his painfully erect cock and placing it at Patrick’s entrance.

“So bossy. I love you so much, ‘Trick,” Pete whispered as he entered Patrick’s body for the first time.

“Please, Pete,” Patrick begged, causing Pete to begin moving his hips back and forth slowly, afraid of hurting his young lover.

Patrick huffed loudly and grabbed Pete’s ass, pulling him in deeper, fucking himself harder on Pete’s dick.

“For fuck’s sake, Pete, I won’t break. Fuck me through the mattress. I want you to…” Patrick growled, feeling the older man’s cock growing inside him.

Pete obliged Patrick, throwing the younger man’s legs over his shoulders, thrusting deeper until he was hitting Patrick’s prostate with almost every thrust.

“Pete, please,” Patrick moaned, his hand lightly stroking his leaking member.

Pete batted Patrick’s hand away, using his own hand to work his lover into a frenzy.

Pete smiled widely as he watched the man he loved scream and fall apart, spilling his seed on Pete’s hand and chest.

He increased the speed of his strokes until he was following Patrick into bliss a few seconds later.

Pete kissed Patrick gently as his spent cock slid out of the other man, placing Patrick’s legs back down on the bed before lying climbing over his sated lover, laying down on the bed beside him.

In the afterglow, Patrick and Pete lay facing each other, unable to keep their hands to themselves.

“I never want to leave this bed,” Pete whispered, staring directly into Patrick’s deep blue eyes. “I want to spend every waking moment finding out what makes you smile, what makes you sigh, what makes you squeal, what makes you scream…” 

Pete hesitated briefly before continuing. “I want to wake up lying beside you every morning and go to sleep after making love to you every night. What I’m trying to say is, I want us to live together, Patrick.”

Patrick’s answer was lost in Pete’s scorching kiss as he pulled the younger man closer, exploring each other’s bodies and making love until the first rays of sunlight crept through the bedroom curtains.

On Christmas Eve of his twenty-ninth year, the two men were in Chicago participating in the Annual Stumph Family Karaoke Extravaganza when Pete Wentz dropped to one knee and asked Patrick Stump to marry him after singing a heartfelt rendition of Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together”. 

Family and friends of both men cheered as Patrick cried, nodding profusely and saying ‘Yes!’ as Pete slipped the ring onto his finger.

On Valentine’s Day exactly thirteen years after their disastrous first encounter, a thirty year old Patrick Martin Stump (dressed in a classic black tuxedo) vowed to love, honor, and cherish thirty five year old Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third (in tight black tuxedo pants, crisp white shirt, and a navy blue crushed velvet jacket) in front of all of their friends, family, and coworkers under the trees at Barnsdall Art Park.

  
At the reception held in the backyard of the couple’s new home, Patrick and Pete Stump-Wentz swayed to the music they had chosen for their first dance, Billy Joel’s “Just The Way You Are.”

Their beloved pets Hemmy and Penny ran around the tables, searching for errant scraps that had found their way onto the floor.

The newlyweds stole kisses and smiled at each other, the gold rings on their fingers reflecting the soft candlelight illuminating the dance floor.

Both men were tipsy on champagne, but fully intoxicated by the intense love shared between them.

Pete leaned in, joining their lips tenderly before whispering words of love as well as promises for the night to come in his husband’s ear, causing a deep blush to spread across Patrick’s cheeks.

Soon after, they ran through white rose petals raining down on their heads while heading towards the open door of the limo, waiting to spirit them away to their secluded honeymoon destination.

Patrick and Pete stopped to kiss their mothers’ cheeks, hands intertwined.

Pete entered the limo first, but before he could pull Patrick in behind him, he lost his husband to a bear hug from his best friend.

“Always remember Marty,” Bob whispered in Patrick’s ear. “Say the word and I’ll kick his ass up and down Hollywood Boulevard for you.”

Patrick looked down into the limo at his smiling husband, finding only love, adoration, and desire in his eyes.

“I don’t think I’ll ever have to take you up on that offer, Cory,” he replied before climbing in beside his husband and shutting the limo door.

Patrick smiled at his husband, certain as long as he had Pete by his side, he was ready to face whatever lay ahead of them, for better or worse.


End file.
